The Wicked Game
by ChocolateNobody
Summary: Right after the Fall, John cannot cope with the fact that Sherlock is dead.   Admitting to himself that he will never see his best friend again is much harder than it seems to be.


**The tittle of this fanfick is inspired by the song I was listening to while writting it. It's a cover by James Vincent McMorrow and I highly recommend you to listen to it while reading (or just listen to it whenever you want, it's a beautiful song!).  
><strong>**I will try my best to upload regularly. I have some ideas for the next chapters alredy, so we will see (:  
>Ah, what else... I hope you enjoy it! Reviews are always more than welcomed. <strong>

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><p><em>It shouldn't have supposed to happen. <em>John was driving in a cab back to Baker Street, looking bluntly through the window, feeling absolutely nothing.

He built a wall in his mind, pushing away everything that has happened. It wouldn't help for too long. John knew that. He knew that sooner or later (more likely sooner) it will all come back with a doubled force. Deep inside he knew that it will be getting only worse and worse from now on, but he didn't want to think about it at the moment. Not yet.

He didn't want to think about the fact that Sherlock Holmes is dead.

A shiver run down his spine when images of what has happened earlier that day shouted in his mind for attention.  
>He can't think about it just yet.<br>John had a feeling that only a little push would be enough for him to break into thousand pieces right now.

A few moments later he payed the driver and got out of the cab. He clunched his fists, trying to stay calm. As ridiculus as it sounded, Baker Street didn't look the same anymore.  
>He had a feeling it will never be.<p>

Slowly, he entered the flat. Mrs. Hudson was alredy waitting for him and started asking questions the moment John walked through the door.  
>Only one look was needed to make her quiet. John wondered if he really looked that bad. Maybe she could see on his face the truth he could not yet admit to himself.<br>The truth about Sherlock.

Even thinking about him made John wince in pain. He quickly pushed the awful thoguhts back behind the wall. Mrs. Hudson opened her mouth to say something, but he just shook his head and walked upstairs without a word being spoken.

He felt a bulge growing in his throat. With every step he took , he was heavier and heavier under the weight of his sorrow.

John entered the living room, which looked exactly the same as a few hours ago, yet now the air was somewhat thicker, making it hard to breath.  
>Everything was on its right place, yet nothing felt like home anymore.<p>

Standing in the middle of the room, looking around, he inhaled deeply. Then, slowly, he sat on his armchair, still struggling with himself not to let all the emotions, that so eagerly wanted to break free, overwhelm him.  
>Whenever he blinked or closed his eyes for a little longer, the images of <em>the fall<em> were haunting his mind. It was impossible to escape them.

The silence never disturbed him more. John remembered how often he wished for some peace and quiet when Sherlock made his loud experiments or was bored enough to shoot the wall.  
>Was it possible he missed that alredy ?<p>

John tried _so hard_ not to think about what happened, not to think about Sherlock.  
>But how exactly could he do that ? Sherlock was <em>his life<em>. There was no point in denying that. And now he is dead.

So what else was there left for him ?

He looked at the armchair in front of him. Sherlock's armchair.  
>They will never again sit together, discussing the crime. Was it possible he missed the frown on Sherlock's face when John got something wrong ? Or Sherlock's not-well-enough-hidden smirk when John was positive he dedeuced everything correctly just to be politely mocked by his friend a moment later ?<p>

Was is possible he missed it all ?

John exhaled loudly, resting his head on his left hand. He scolded himself in his mind for being too sentimental. But _how_ exactly could he get past _this?_  
>How could he get over Sherlock's death ?<p>

A singel groan escaped his mouth. His body began to tremble uncontrolably.

_Sherlock is dead._

John hide his face in his hands, trying desperately to calm himself by taking deep breaths.

_He saw him jumping off the hospital. He saw him lying on the ground. There was blood everywhere. So much blood. _

John felt his cheeks were wet. Was he crying for a long time now ?  
>Just now. Just this once he will allow himself to mourn Sherlock. His best friend. The one and only he loved and cared about.<p>

_Someone knocked him on the ground. He felt dizzy, the smell of blood making him sick. Sherlock's blood. Why there were so many people ? They didn't let him close to Sherlock. Didn't they understand he was his friend ? And a doctor, he could help. Save him, please. When he finally got pass the crowd, paramedics were alredy taking his body away. His hair were sticky and much darker from the blood dripping from his head.  
>He managed to grab Sherlock by his wrist in the last hope that he will find the pulse.<br>Nothing.  
>Sherlock Holmes was dead.<br>And there was nothing he, John Watson, could do about it._

- How could he do this to me? - He shouted in his hands to suppress his screams. The anger overtook him so suddenly, he didn't know how to control it. So many feelings were shouting in his mind, pushing the wall. So eager to break free. - How could he leave me behind?

Wherever he looked something reminded him of Sherlock. The violin, the skull, his bloody experiments...

Just today. Today he will let it all out and he won't ever tell about it to anyone.

The fury and hurt could be heard in his screams. If only he didn't go back to Baker Street...  
>Sherlock knew. He was positive Sherlock knew it's a false alarm and Mrs. Hudson was allright.<br>He sent John back on purpose, to face Moriarty by himself.

John wasn't sure if he was angry at himself for leaving him alone, or at Sherlock for not stopping him from doing so.

- Why did you leave me behind, Sherlock... - He whispered this time, in a tired, hoarse voice.

He winced in pain when his leg started to hurt again. As strange as it sounded, he wasn't suprised at all that the pain was back. Deep inside he was alredy awaiting it.  
>John leant forward to grab his leg in his hands. He squeezed it hard to ease the pain but it didn't work. It was then he realised he was holding his breath. Exhaling loudly, he let out a single sob. It was alredy getting dark outside but he didn't bother to turn on the light.<p>

_It's fine. It's all fine._

On sudden impulse he stood up and walked a few shaky steps towards the sofa. He layed down, thinking to himself that he has to escape. Escape from Baker Street. Staying here now would be just pure torture. John could still smell Sherlock's scent. When he closed his eyes, it felt like Sherlock was still here.  
>He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down.<p>

Tomorrow he will deal with everything and decide what to do next.

As for now, John was too overwhelmed with sadness to think straight. Images of Sherlock's fall were the only thing he saw in his mind.  
>His friend's death left a hole in his heart that was too painful to stand and too big to fill it in.<p>

His last thought, before darkness finally sent him to sleep, was that he could never be whole again.


End file.
